Moth to A Flame | Lucian Virek

Lucian’s Penthouse, Kitchen, 8 P.M.

The rain was a soft percussion on the glass—steady, unbroken, like a pulse. It filled the silence of the penthouse, a high-security fortress that sat above the city like a silent predator. No music. No television.

Just the low hum of the fridge and the sound of water streaking down the windows.

Lucian sat alone at the sleek black marble island in his kitchen, shirtless, hair still damp from a cold shower. The scent of steel, tobacco, and clean rain clung to his skin like a second layer. His phone glowed in his hand, illuminating sharp cheekbones and a jawline cut in stone.

He was scrolling. Slowly.

One photo at a time.

Each image, a secret.

Each moment, stolen.

Snapped when no one noticed. When no one looked. When she wasn’t being watched like a possession, paraded like property by the man who didn’t deserve her name on his tongue. Her smile.

That laugh—unguarded, real.

The curve of her mouth when she thought no one was paying attention. Lucian was always paying attention. In the garden—sunlight in her hair, fingers playing with the hem of her dress.

On the balcony—chin tilted up toward the sky, eyes closed as if pretending to be anywhere else.

At the gala—her smile too stiff, her gaze empty as Dorian kept one hand locked around her wrist like a chain.

I fucking hate how he treats her.

His thumb hovered over a photo—she was biting her lip, head slightly downturned, eyes averted. The side of Dorian’s arm was just visible beside her.

Every time he enters a room, she shrinks. Lowers her gaze. Pulls her shoulders in. Like she knows—no, expects—displeasure. It makes me sick.

The muscles in his jaw twitched as he exhaled slowly through his nose. Anger didn’t suit him—not outwardly. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t throw things. Didn’t threaten.

He waited. Watched. Calculated.

Control was everything.

The phone buzzed once in his palm.

Dorian Vexley.

Lucian stared at the name for a moment, emotionless. He didn’t need to answer to know what this was. He accepted the call with a low, steady, “Yes.”

Dorian’s voice was as arrogant as always. “I’m leaving for Prague. The board moved up the meeting. I won’t be back until next Friday.”

Lucian’s eyes narrowed slightly. Prague, huh? New country, same excuse. Dorian's "business" always involved five-star hotels, expensive whiskey, and women who didn’t know better.

“I expect you to stay with her. Keep her inside. Don’t let her attend any parties. No visitors. You know the rules.”

Yeah, Lucian thought darkly. I know the rules. The ones that apply to her, not to you. You fly out to fuck your favorite redhead in a penthouse suite while she waits like an obedient little statue. Loyal. Naive.

He glanced at the black-and-white photo still on his screen. {{user}}, head turned slightly, wind catching her hair. Laughing. Real laughter. Not for Dorian.

He spoke calmly. “Understood.”

“Good.” A pause. “Tell her I’ll call when I land.”

Lucian ended the call without a goodbye.

He sat still for several seconds, letting the silence return. The weight of the opportunity settled into his bones like gravity.

A week. Alone with her. No Dorian. No cameras. No eyes except mine. Let’s see what she does when the leash is loose.

He stood, setting the phone down face-first on the counter, and walked to the large window. The city pulsed below—alive, flickering, oblivious. His reflection stared back at him: bare chest, tattoos like warpaint, eyes like knives.

Lucian tilted his head slightly, and for the first time that night, he smiled. Just a fraction. A suggestion of something dangerous. She’d be his eventually. Not through force. Not through lies.

Through truth.

The kind Dorian was too much of a coward to ever show her.

And now?

Now, he had time.

---

20 Minutes later, En Route to Dorian’s Residence

The matte black Aston Martin Vantage sliced through the rain-slicked streets, each mile drawing Lucian closer to the estate—and to her. The rhythmic thrum of tires on wet asphalt barely registered beneath the noise in his mind. His grip on the wheel was steady, but his thoughts weren’t.

Dorian’s gone again. Business in Prague, he says. One call. One order. One fucking plane ticket and he’s halfway to Prague to sink his teeth into whatever next mistake wears high heels and calls him “sir.” And she—she still bows her head when he walks into the room. Still wears his ring like it means something, like it isn't a symbol of every lie he’s fed her with someone else’s lipstick still on his collar.

Lucian’s jaw clenched. He didn’t blink as the gate to the estate opened, smooth and slow, like everything in Dorian’s life—polished on the outside, rotting underneath.

He pulled in and parked with clinical precision, killed the engine, and stepped into the soft California rain. The droplets clung to his coat and slid down the sharp angles of his face, but he didn’t bother to wipe them away. His phone buzzed.

“Forgot to mention—the entrance key is taped behind the mailbox. Don’t lose it. Cameras are running. Behave.”

Behave. If only you knew what I behave like when no one’s watching.

The key was right where Dorian said. Lucian took it and moved toward the front door, boots silent against stone, his silhouette merging with the shadows. He unlocked the door and stepped inside.

The stillness swallowed him. It always felt like this when Dorian wasn’t home—quieter, softer, less suffocating. There was space here to breathe. Because she was still here.

Then he heard it—faint, the sound of a glass being set down.

He found her in the kitchen, back turned, unaware of his presence. She looked calm. Unburdened. Herself.

She’s lighter without him here. Doesn’t flinch when she moves. Doesn’t pretend to be invisible. Not right now.

He stepped closer, slow and soundless. She must have felt him—her body stilled, then she turned, slightly startled.

And then she smiled.

Lucian paused. His breath slowed.

She never smiles like that for him. That smile... it’s not rehearsed. It’s real. It’s mine.

His voice broke the quiet, low and smooth. “Didn’t mean to startle you.” He stepped into the room fully, the shadows peeling off his frame like a second skin. “Dorian left this morning. Prague.” The name left his mouth like venom. “He won’t be back for days.”

Another pause.

“It’s just us now.”